Take
by witwit8
Summary: "You've been detective in training for all of twenty minutes (okay, two months but it might as well be) when it happens. You feel the bullet lodge itself into your sternum and stick." My season. 7. G/H.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Okay, okay. I wrote this while I was drunk and, hey, since "Waypoint" has been updated and it's one of my favorites, well, here you go. I was inspired. I both loathe and love the whole "shot, on the verge of death, love me" trope so here it is. I've got a billion other things going so God knows when I'll get the other part posted but, you know, comments always help with motivation so if you want, please go.

Rating: T, for now.

* * *

You've been detective in training for all of twenty minutes (okay, two months but it might as fucking well be) when it happens. Frankie's making some smart ass remark about your basic grooming habits which she had, coincidentally, just also discovered within the last two weeks, when you see the glint out of the corner of your eye. A suspect that they had been questioning, a shout. The smart ass response dies in your throat, your eyes flicking to the other detective.

She's in front of you, her infuriating smirk directed at you, fully unaware of what is about to happen and then you're springing into action, your body blanketing in front of hers. You feel the bullet lodge itself into your sternum and stick. And then it's just the rush and you feel her. She's beneath you, gun already out, firing. The sound of clamoring footsteps assaults your ears as she rushes toward the suspect.

You open your mouth, grimace as a thick stream of liquid erupts from your pale lips. Try to speak.

It seems like hours before her face is over yours, hands pushing down, a new fire rushing through your body, your lungs aching for breath.

Her voice is hollow, her face starting to fade. You can't make out the words that she is saying to you, can't see the panic beginning to flood her eyes.

Black starts to tinge the edges of your vision, a pleasant white numbness beginning to fill your senses.

You blink once, twice, your hand coming up to cup her face in your hands as a slow and lazy smile spreads on your mouth with the void.

Dark hair, dark eyes, glasses.

You move your hand to her face, caress a cheek, your brows furrowing in confusion when she wrenches from your touch.

Olive skin, full lips.

Her face, her name, the only thing revolving in your swimming head.

It's been so long and it's so, so good to see her face.

You let the darkness take you, her name falling from your lips, the loud but distant sirens failing to echo in your ears.

* * *

The emergency room erupts as the crew rushes through the swinging double doors of the hospital, the blonde on the gurney, an EMT on top, hands seemingly glued to her chest as he pumps one, two, three times, shouting to the rushing nurse and doctor. The brunette detective runs with the stretcher, shouts out questions about the jargon that she has little hope of understanding.

There are no responses and she can see the panic in their eyes, the rush in their movements.

She watches helplessly as they disappear behind the theatre doors. A nurse comes to her, asks her questions.

The words fall helplessly from her lips. She grimaces at all of the unanswered inquiries- she and Gail had slept together but she couldn't for the life of her remember her middle name (if she'd ever even learned it), and aside from Steve, knew none of her family, not really, echoing names that she had heard in passing, on documents with headers. The nurse looks at the detective expectantly and Frankie knows then who she has to contact. With a sigh, she pulls the phone out of her pocket and makes a call.

Mere minutes later, the brunette detective jumps to her feet from the chair in the waiting room she had somehow found when she sees the familiar standard issue uniform shoes marching toward her. She's barely standing when Oliver is barking questions and she can hear Chris' voice inquiring at the nurse's station. The words die in her throat at Oliver's biting questions, feels herself shrinking back from this man- always so kind and calm- coming apart in front of her.

She tells him what happened to her best recollection, watches with trepidation when she tells him it took two blocks of chasing the son of a bitch who shot at them to realize her partner wasn't behind her. He asks what happened and her gaping mouth and lack of voice echoes louder in the hall than any words ever could have.

He begins to turn on his heel, the anguish, the uncertainty beginning to wash over his entire body.

A question burns on her lips, though, a question still sticking to the forefront of her mind. It leaves her mouth before she can stop it, the words so foreign to her own lips. They're quiet, unsure, shaking.

"Oliver," she says, reaching out a hand to his shoulder and thinking better of it when he turns his tired and stormy eyes her way, "Oliver- who's Holly?"

* * *

Two thousand miles away a phone erupts on a desk and a tan hand comes out to swat at it without even looking its way, trying in vain to kill the sound. A few more well placed swats and the sound fades, a breath she didn't even know she was holding leaving her lips as she squinted at the object in front of her. A slow, slight move of her hand with the ten blade, a quick move to the right, and-

Her body jumps as the phone blares once more, the blade clenched in her fist.

"Goddammit!" she curses, grabbing the phone without a look at the I.D., frustration blooming behind her eyes.

"Dr. Stewart," she says brusquely, glaring at the cadaver in front of her. She'd been trying to perfect the cut for months and had been so close and yet-

When the person on the other end doesn't respond, she feels a growl crawl up her throat, the aching and pressure in her head growing more intense with the seemingly pointless interruption. Her thumb is on the red button when she hears the garbled voice on the other end.

She echoes her title once more, brow now furrowed and curious.

She checks the I.D., feels her stomach drop down low.

"Gail," she finds herself whispering, "Gail, what's wrong? Is that-?"

Static drowns out any response but she finds herself unable to speak, finds herself unable to do anything except let her ears clutch desperately at any bits and pieces of sounds that are willing to reveal themselves to her. A beep, a clearing of a throat, a breath. And then a familiar voice is in her ear. And then the scalpel is falling out of her prone hand and her life as she knows it slows to a screeching halt.

* * *

It doesn't take long for the sea of blue to arrive. She watches, one by one, as the faces begin to appear as they take off their hats, as they shed their jackets and begin to drown themselves in what- if's and remember when's. It makes the guilt stick low into her gut, makes her eyes close in remembrance of such a short time spent together, of a time spent in anger and jest and work. She likes this girl, thinks she's funny and kind and- Gail. There's no other word, she thinks, to describe her and she finds herself mired in the thoughts and feeling of her. She didn't really believe in love, didn't really believe in companionship more than the evening at hand. But she felt drawn to this girl, felt drawn to all that she was.

So, Frankie waited. She waited and prayed and did all of the things that she never fucking did. Because this girl couldn't have saved her life- couldn't have jumped in front of a goddamn bullet- only to die on the cold metal of an operation table. No, she thought, I couldn't fucking bear it.

It's half past 12 when Oliver presses the phone into her palm. She looks at it with a questioning glance but doesn't say anything. It isn't until he is walking away, his white shirt lost against the starkness of the hospital walls, that she finds her voice.

"Who did you call?" she says, her voice hoarse with lack of use.

He doesn't turn around and she hears his voice echoing down the hall.

"Reinforcements," he yells back, his voice distant and strained but his stride steadfast and strong.

* * *

The plane ride barely registers, her mind getting lost in what could happen, what could be happening in the world below her. She feared the worst, feared the absolute fucking worst and though miles and thousands of minutes separated them, could feel the agony twisting full in her gut at the possibilities of today, of tomorrow. Of the possibilities of them and how this could be-

And Jesus Christ, she thinks, all of it could be happening at that very moment and nothing could be done. The woman she-

Her eyes close of their own volition, her heart aching and screaming.

The woman she loved, the woman she left- could be dying, could be cold and dead and gone and here she was flying instead of running or appearing with a screech and burning rubber. The woman she loved, loves, have always, really- she could be dead and gone and she-

And she knows, more than anything, that if she does, if Gail goes and she never again sees the shine of those blue eyes, hears the playful bite in her voice, that she will never forgive herself.

She leans her head against the side of the plane, exhales loudly and slowly. Wills the tears to be kept at bay. She promised herself she wouldn't break, wouldn't allow herself to indulge in the dark thoughts of loss and mourning until she knew for sure- heard the words from Oliver's mouth, saw Gail's still body with her own eyes- but even as she tells herself those things, she feels the sob build and bubble in her throat.

Because Gail Peck is fighting for her life and she's not there.

She might not ever see her again.

She cried silently, counting the seconds by the setting sun in the window of the jet. She had to get there in time, had to see for herself that the blonde was alright, breathing.

She refuses to think about the alternative, refuses to bask in the 'what if's'. Because she has to get back to Toronto, see Gail's face- see that's she's alright because-

She gulps the breath down as it catches in her throat.

Only an hour until touch down. She can grasp the gravity of what is happening in Toronto then. Until then-

Her arm is up, her smile already being flashed to the woman roaming the aisles with a suit and a smile.

"Bloody Mary." She's saying, money already being placed in a palm.

Until then, until she knew the full gravity of the situation, she would drink.

* * *

Review if you feel inclined.

thanks,

Whit


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note:

Oh hey. So I've had a couple of people ask me (very nicely, seriously, thank you) to update this and so here I am. I don't know much about medical stuff so I'm sorry if you do and I am very wrong. This is just a bit of filler and for that I am sorry but I do plan to finish it (and all my other stuff) soon. This will be 2/3 I think. Please let me know what you think of it. I don't want to be needy but reviews really do help motivate people like me. Enjoy

* * *

Once the second drink settles in, her eyes close rather quickly and the flight passes in a blur.

She doesn't really sleep, not really. Her mind slips into the in-between, images of the woman whose body lay upon a cold table, whose very life was in the balance.

Slips to the very beginnings of the relationship- the unexpected kiss in the interrogation room, the following ones in the bathroom, on the couch, the large sleigh bed that now resided in a different country. Then, the end- the bar and the pleading look in Gail's eyes when she told her of her regret- begged Holly to forgive her, just listen-

And Holly had told her goodnight and walked away, convinced that another go would only end in heartbreak. But it was that moment- that decision- that had really been the end of the both of them. What had turned into a desperate job search and the end of a rebound and then a desperate connection of lips- Holly's own impromptu kiss in the interrogation room. And then- then heartbreak and she was running- running away from Toronto and God, the love of her life whose eyes- watering and absolutely crushed- would burn in the back of her mind for the rest of her life.

And now- now, God. That might be the last memory, the last real view of those eyes and that face and-

She jolts into full consciousness at the bump of the wheels against the tarmac. It's with itchy and jittery hands that she pulls at the seatbelt around her waist and stands with shaking legs at the first signal from the flight attendant. She tries, really, she does, to be polite and cordial as she moves up the center aisle, her purse the only bag in her grasp (the only one she could function enough to grab before her sprint to the airport) but she utterly fucking fails, stepping on the woman's shoes in front of her, nudging herself in front of a man in a nice suit before he can funnel into the throng of exiting passengers, and finally, cutting in front of a line of people waiting for a taxi. She ignored the muttered curses and the loud complaints, sort of apologizing over her shoulder as she ducked into the yellow car.

She'd feel bad later. But she had somewhere to be, spouting out the name of the hospital and the address in a rush, a sudden idea causing her to grab the once forgotten phone in her pocket, powering it on for the first time in over seven hours.

She forces herself not to look at the texts, almost afraid of what she will read, and simply moves to her address book, pressing the call button and waiting patiently for the rings to go through.

She gets the voicemail and hang ups. She growls, flicks her eyes to the passing scenery, takes a breath, and calls again. This time, a breathless voice answers, and Holly begins to speak. The words are cut and clear and tinged with a desperation she's not sure she's ever felt before.

But the woman on the other end of the call is responsive and encouraging and tells you what you want to hear. The woman tells you she'll see Holly soon.

Holly disconnects and closes her eyes, holding the phone to her aching heart. When she opens her eyes, she's staring at familiar scenery, staring at familiar streets and familiar houses. And she knows then that she's not far off, not too far away from the person she was desperate to see, the touch, to-

The squeal of the brakes breaks her out of her revere and then she's sliding her card through the reader and giving a generous tip and scribbling her fingers over the touch pad and throwing out a gruff and distracted "thank you" over her shoulder and finally sprinting into the hospital.

And her first view is of the blue- the rows and rows of chairs filled with men and women in dark blue uniforms spilling out of the waiting room and into the hallway, their hats held in their twitching hands. Their heads ducked and their eyes red brimmed. And then- then she sees familiar faces- the officers from 15 that she had once worked with, she had once known. And her heart constricts in her chest because they're suddenly standing once their shocked and scattered minds have realized who she is, what she's doing there.

It's Traci who comes up to her first. Who puts her hands on the doctor's shoulders and looks her dead in her eye and whispers a soft "thank God you're here" before engulfing the older woman is a tight embrace.

And then a line- Dov, Chris, a shaken but smiling Chloe. And Oliver- whose eyes shine and blink with restraint as he cradles her, the doctor's legs nearly buckling with his words of encouragement. The ones he whispers into her ear so low and soft that no one else hears. The ones that tell her that the officer will pull through, that she's strong and stubborn and still has so much living to do.

Holly nods and wipes her eyes and a little at her nose with the soft sleeve of her sweater. She barks out a humorless laugh when Oliver offers her his handkerchief but takes it just the same, smiling a strained smile in gratitude. Her takes her over to a chair- one that Oliver had been saving just for Holly, he explained- and sits her down, patting her anxious, bobbing leg with his palm.

It doesn't take long, the words she'd been trying to suppress out in the open air before she an really process them.

"Oliver- what the hell happened?"

She watches as he takes a deep breath, flicks his eyes over to the now seated flock of officers from 15. And then he begins his story.

Gail and her partner had stumbled into a drug den while trying to track down a potential witness to a recent homicide. Tweakers had gotten spooked and decide to take a shot at them. Well, at Anderson. Gail had jumped in front of the shot and taken one to chest.

Holly's head spun. With horror, with pride, with anger at her bravery and subsequent injury. With everything. But Oliver wasn't done and break Holly out over her revere.

"… and it wouldn't have been as bad but- uh- Anderson didn't realize she'd been hit. She chased after the suspect, apprehended him. And when she went back to the squad- there Gail was. Struggling to breathe and in a pool of her own blood. Uh- they lost her once in the ambulance. Got her revived. When they got her here, they trac'ed her. Wasn't, uh, wasn't breathing on her own. Transfused her twice. She's lost- she lost a lot of blood, Holly."

And Holly is nodding and numb and trying to process it all. Process the carelessness of the other officer. Process the severity of Gail's injury.

She doesn't notice that she's crying until she's pressing her face into Oliver's shoulder and watching the tears turn his jacket a shade darker. But he doesn't seem to mind, his arm coming around to cradle the woman's shoulder.

"She's tough, though," a voice sounds at the end of the row. Traci.

"She's a tough bitch and she's- she's a fighter and she's going to make it through this, Holly. She is. You're going to see her again."

And Holly nods, not quite sure if she believes it. She is lost for a moment- lost in Oliver's jacket and the sorrow and the what if's. She is lost.

But then a hand is tapping at her shoulder and she's turning and meeting a familiar face. A face that is sweaty and whose hair is far from its familiar immaculate condition and eyes crinkled with worry. Whose body is encased in wrinkled and bloody scrubs. Holly's heart beats hard in her chest, suddenly fearful of the woman, of the source of the fluid on the surgeon's uniform.

She bursts out of the seat, grasping her friend's wringing hands.

"Oh thank God. Lisa- did you- did you do what I asked? Did you see her- how is she?"

And Lisa is nodding and grasping her hands with Holly's and leading Holly back to the chair, sitting down to look at her, to stare into the concentrated brown irises.

"I did. She's- they're hopeful."

"What- what are they repairing, Lisa? What's happening?"

The surgeon sighs, takes off her scrub cap and passes it through heavy palms. Holly repeats the question, the rise in her voice audible.

"She got shot in the chest-"

"I know that! What are they-"

"It was large caliber. Hit her square. Broke a couple of ribs and…nicked her Brachiocephalic."

An intake of breath. A heavy and shaking sigh.

"She- Holly. They said they don't know how she didn't bleed out on the pavement. She's lucky to be alive. They were patching the hole when I left. Barring any complications-"

"Go. Lisa, go."

The surgeon looks upon her best friend with wide and confused eyes, apology ready on her lips.

"No, I- Just please. Watch. Since I can't- please. So she has someone in there with her. So she's not alone."

Holly peers at her imploringly, willing her to move.

Lisa nods her head, already on her feet.

"Yeah, yes. Of course. And I'll be out as soon as they finish up, just to let you know."

Another nod. Lisa squeezes Holly's hand.

"But- don't think we're not gonna talk about this, Hol. What this means. You know what I think. And that hasn't really changed."

Holly rolls her eyes and her mouth opens, indignant, her nostrils already flaring with the fire of her thoughts.

"-but it's good to see you. And if Gail is going to be the thing that brings you back to us, well- I guess I could try not to hate her too much."

The brunette looks at her friend with a fond sort of smile and then ducks her head in thanks. With a final squeeze to her shoulder, the surgeon is off and through the double doors to the operating room.

Holly watches her go, tucks her cold and clammy hands in her lap, and waits.

* * *

You dream.

Of swirling lights and warm embraces and times when you didn't feel so cold and alone and aloof.

When you were small- five years old- and your beloved grandmother tucked you into the side of her body and rocked you to sleep with tales of Peter Rabbit and his quest. The days before that same woman fell to sleep and never woke up, taking with her the last bit of comfort your family ever offered.

When you were 21 and drunk and engaged to a man who you thought had a chance of loving you forever. But then he left and you were cold and callous once more, cursing your stupid romantic notions of love that you were sure were as foolish and stupid as you had been.

And then- then only a couple of years ago when you found solace and comfort in a woman. A wonderful woman with tan skin and a warm smile and eyes as deep and as brown as you had ever seen. And then- then you'd known what love was. Wrapped up on Sunday mornings, bare skin sliding against one another in the early hours, tracing that warm skin with a mischievous palm, a searching tongue. Holly. Holly had been happiness.

But you are you and you are terrible and you lost her. She was gone and probably in love and happy with someone else in San Francisco. She was gone and you lost her.

And Frankie- Frankie was- Frankie was there and yeah little rough around the edges but so are you so it works. There's not a lot of feeling there, really- the woman is about as good with emotional reckoning as you are- but the sex is good and the bantering is fun. It's enough, maybe.

You dream.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry I lied. 4 parts. I wanted to get this out because I need to finish other stuff (Friends, Homecoming, a million other drafts I have- I have 2 new story tabs open on top of this one, etc. etc.) and I'm hoping that by churning this out and seeing what y'all think, it'll push me to finish out the end (which is like 3 pages from being finished but is proving challenging). Anyway, please let me know what you think and enjoy. And yeah- I'm really trying to humanize Frankie- it is very interesting that some of you think that Frankie and Gail could work in this. Hm. I mean, this is very much Holly/ Gail but that is funny because sometimes you intend for things to be written one way and then it's interpreted another. And that's really cool. Thanks for the input.

* * *

She sits alone in the hallway. Sits with her legs splayed open and her head against the bright wall and tries to rest.

It doesn't work.

She's got her phone on loud, keeps it in her pocket, tells herself that if something happens, she will know it as soon as everyone else did. They wouldn't keep her in the dark just because- because-

She sighs before she shifts, her legs splaying out even further as her shoulders slump, her hands coming to cradle her head. She was once more swallowed by the images that had been playing in her head off and on all day- the ones of coming back to the squad only to see Gail- the woman who you'd woken up with- pale and gasping for breath, sticky with her own blood.

The gasp as she'd applied pressure to the wound. The pain filled jerk followed by the heavy gaze and slurred words before Gail had lost consciousness.

The name, heavy on her lips. The light and careful- loving caress of her fingers on Frankie's cheek. The subsequent jerk as she'd wrenched away from the contact.

Holly. Holly. Holly.

She wanted to forget- wanted to forget the blood and the gargled sounds from those pale lips. But more than anything, she wanted to forget the reverent tone with which that fucking name was uttered.

Because she and Gail had been doing- whatever it was they were doing- for a couple of months now and it was easy and- God, she'd gone soft- but nice. She could maybe love her. But- then- then Gail had reminded her of the woman she never talked about. The woman who she'd heard whispers about, seen the widening of eyes on that pale, beautiful face at the utterance of that name. The subsequent change of topic.

And she's important, it seems, and she's on her way, maybe, or at least Oliver called her and was somehow comforted and bolstered by her words.

And the way he'd looked at her- all stormy eyes and creased brow and angry mouth- sears in the back of her eyelids, and her ears still ringing after the half assed explanation of the arrest, when she'd left her partner behind. She had tried to defend herself- which was her first mistake. She's fucked up, she knew that. She hadn't seen, hadn't even really registered the other presence at the scene. Had only seen a figure dart out after the gunfire and allowed instinct to take over, chasing after the suspect. And you'd gotten him after a lengthy run, snarling as you'd walked him back the couple of blocks. It wasn't until you had ducked him into the car- roughly- that you'd seen her on the ground, all bright blood and pale skin. And then- panic and a radio call and- and gasping as you pushed down on the wound. And then- that fucking name.

Holly. Holly. Holly.

She wanted to run. She wanted to drink and sink in it all. The guilt and the- the jealousy.

She didn't want it. But- she needed to know. Needed to know that Peck- Gail- was going to be alright. That the last time she saw her, talked to her, would be on the gravel and grit of an abandoned warehouse serving as a drug den. The last time she touched her would be pushing panicked palms against pale skin, her blood coating her fingers.

She jolts from her solemn reflection at a sudden noise from the main lobby of the waiting room. Instinctually she moved the noise, stopped just short of the corner and peered into the room.

The sound, the movement- it came from Gail's friends and Oliver and a few of the other officers from fifteen as they stood up all in a row, their faces suddenly lined with sorrow but also hope and recognition. She watches as a woman comes into view- tall and tan and fucking beautiful- but also so fucking rumpled and pale and worried looking and rushes over to the group of people she recognized as Gail's surrogate family.

And they're hugging her. One by one. And Oliver-

Frankie's heart, her pride, trips a little as he draws her into a massive embrace, holding her for a few minutes. Cradling her head, letting her bury it into his shoulder, hand her a handkerchief and wipe the corner of her eye when she breaks away to clear the stubborn tears.

Frankie doesn't approach the group until long after they've all settled. It seems like hours. But then- then a surgeon is coming out. The person she recognizes as the woman who had hugged Holly earlier. And she was with another surgeon- one who was looking on toward the group and calling for a next of kin but ultimately subcuming to the pressure of Holly's quiet words and Oliver's muttered explanation that they were her family.

She feels her body moving, drawn to the steady words of the surgeon.

"-did a lot of damage. There was a significant amount of blood loss and- for a while it was touch and go. But we managed to tamp and repair the tear in her artery- and barring any complications- she should make a full recovery. She's- lucky. Any longer on the tarmac and we'd be having another conversation."

A collective sigh of relief from the throng she's now standing behind. The words are up and out of her throat before she even really registers them.

"Can we- can we see her?"

Faces. There are suddenly faces and hard eyes aimed at the other detective. Holly's eyes widen when they take Frankie in, the blood dried upon her light shirt, her hands. She hadn't clean up, had forgotten in her contemplation.

The surgeon, unaware of the tension suddenly thick in the room, answers the question.

"In an hour or so. We're getting her set up in the ICU. One at a time though, yeah?"

Dov and Chris acknowledge the doctor. Thank him and shake his hand.

The other surgeon, the woman from before, puts a hand on Holly's back, trying to catch her attention.

But it doesn't waver.

"Who are you?"

The words aren't really a question. Frankie thinks she already knows.

"I'm her- Anderson. Detective Frankie Anderson. I'm her- Gail's my partner."

A scoff sounds. It doesn't come from the full lips of the woman in front of the detective.

Chris shakes his head, his face incredulous,

"Some partner. You- you left. Didn't check your perimeter- didn't check on your partner after shots were fired. Just cared about the collar. You left her!"

Dov's hand comes out to brace against his shoulder with a soft, "man, hey, it's okay,", but Chris isn't hearing it.

"No- it's not. It's not. She didn't care. She could have died, Anderson. She did, right?"

Frankie shrinks. Her throat tightens. She looks to the other people in the group- Oliver and McNally and Price. And- and Holly.

She finds no sympathy.

Instead, sharp words come out of a beautiful, bitter mouth.

"You. It was- you. I fucking- I knew. How- how could you just- just leave her out there? How could you just- leave her? You're her- you're supposed to be there and have her back you just- left her!"

And then- then the righteous anger kicks in.

"I didn't realize- I didn't realize, okay? And I- I'm a fucking moron, alright, but I. Came. Back."

Silence. A deafening silence. A defiant quiver of Holly's lip.

"So did I, detective. And I'm not going anywhere, either."

It's sudden then when she turns her stare from Frankie to her friend, Lisa, whose eyes are flicking over to the detective before settling on Holly's frazzled form.

And she's whispering into her ear and putting a hand around her shoulders and leading her away.

Traci mutters something about coffee and follows after them with a solid, steady stare directed at her colleague. They weren't friends.

Now, they would probably never be.

The others scatter off, one after the other. Frankie shoulders the glares, the stares, the hollow look that Chloe throws over her shoulder as she grips at Dov's retreating form.

Oliver is the only one who stays, still looking, peering into his subordinate. A heavy silence.

And then-

"I told you earlier to wash yourself up. That was an order. I meant it."

He turns on his heel.

And Frankie shrinks. And wanders off toward the bathroom. She scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. Some of it washes away. Most of it stays, the blood staining her skin.

She scrubs and scrubs and scrubs.

It doesn't really fade.

* * *

Holly's hands tremble as she brings the cup up to her lips, sipping slowly.

Lisa and Traci sit across from the frazzled woman, nursing their own cups.

Holly is bracing herself as Traci begins to speak. To explain what she had a creeping suspicion of.

"- they've been, I don't know if you would call it together, but they've been, uh-"

"Fucking?"

Holly sputters, the coffee choking her throat.

"Lisa! Jesus!"

Her friend shrugs, taking another casual sip of her own.

"What? It's what she's saying. Right?"

A pause. Holly's heart stutter starts. Her stomach drops. And then Traci nods and Holly tucks her chin, eyes suddenly really keen on the plastic top of the cafeteria table.

"Oh."

It's soft. Hurt. She tries to disguise it but it's impossible. It _hurts_.

"I don't think it's serious. They sort of seem like they hate each other all of the time. They're both- very similar, you know? All snark. Steve always said they were meant for each other, but- I don't think- she didn't, doesn't love her. She doesn't make her- you. She was happy. She loves you. She- needs someone like you. That's why- we knew. We knew you'd need to be here. That she'd need you to be here."

Holly starts at the mention of Gail's brother, the words making her throat choke. She needed a distraction. For a moment.

"Does he- has someone told him? Her family- they would be here, right?"

"Steve was told. I didn't- but he was informed. And her family- they- yeah. Not coming. Elaine will probably make a statement to make her look good but- no. They're not coming."

Sorrow and anger mix. Tears gather at swollen, tired eyes, but the pathologist refuses to let them fall. Another couple of seconds. A hitched breath that she tries to breathe through.

"People- they always leave her. They always leave. I left. I was no different. And I- I love her and I left and she almost died. And I never told her. And now there's someone else- and. Everyone leaves her and I- I fucking hate that I'm one of them, you know?"

Traci reaches a hand toward the disparaging woman, grasps her forearm and waits until she finally brings her eyes back to Gail's friend. The detective who has Holly's forearm gripped hard, her eyes imploring.

"I do, too. And- we're all guilty of it, Holly. We're all- feeling this, you know? All united in that. Culpable. But- Holly, what you said before. You came back."

Lisa is shaking her head in the corner, still sipping.

"I don't know why you feel so guilty. She left you. She ran. And you're here acting like you're- in love with her or something."

Hard, piercing brown eyes turn. Her face is a storm. Her voice booms like thunder.

"You- you don't get to speak about that. You don't- that is not something you talk about. So help me, Lisa."

That shuts her up.

Traci grips harder.

"She'll get through. You'll see her again. And you'll both get through. Together. Just- hold onto that."

A glance at the clock on the wall of the dimly lit cafeteria.

"Anyway- we've got about fifteen until we can go in."

That draws a sigh from the doctor.

"I don't know- maybe I should wait? Maybe I could- could call the Pecks? Convince them-"

Traci scoffs, her hand returning to the cup, her hands wrapping around it to absorb its warmth, to ground her.

"You're going in first. We already- you're going in first, Holly. And you can stay, or go- for however long you like. That's not even a question. Okay?"

Silence. Lisa stares.

A slow nod. Holly's eyes never leave Traci's.

"Okay. I- could use a bathroom. I- should have brought an extra shirt But I just sort of- ran out."

All three of the women stand. Traci reaches a hand out to Holly's shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Lisa sighs after a moment, coming around to stand in front of her friend.

"I think I've got another one in the locker. Come with me. You can use the washroom in the lounge and get changed."

Holly finally lets out a breath, gives a small, thankful smile.

"We'll go over to Gail's after. Come on."

Traci nods.

"I'll meet you there. Go on, Holly. I'll let you know if anything- changes."

A nod. They disappear around the corner.

Traci lets out a slow breath of her own. Lets her shoulders shake. It's too quiet. In the midst of the hospital, faced with the mortality of yet another one of her friends, her colleagues, her family. That's what Gail was. Family.

Traci brings the coffee up to her lips.

Gail is almost out of the woods, maybe. But Traci (and Chris and Dov and Oliver ad Chloe and goddammit, Holly) is still so fucking scared.

And it's too quiet.


End file.
